


Nothing Left To Lose

by DaisyFloyd



Series: Pink Floyd Collection [4]
Category: Pink Floyd
Genre: Angst, Bisexuality, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, I don't want to give spoilers with the tags, Just know it's sad, Love, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Short One Shot, Sweet, Unrequited Love, very sad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-19
Updated: 2020-06-19
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:14:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,737
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24802927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaisyFloyd/pseuds/DaisyFloyd
Summary: Roger hasn't been feeling well lately.Before leaving, in an act of absolute desperation and braveness, he goes to fix matters with the cause of his restlessness.
Relationships: David Gilmour/Roger Waters
Series: Pink Floyd Collection [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1283780
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	Nothing Left To Lose

**Author's Note:**

> Hello there! Thanks for checking out my story.
> 
> Before reading, please note that:
> 
> \- I mean absolutely no disrespect to anyone mentioned in this story.  
> \- This work is entirely fictional.  
> \- This work does not accurately represent the real relationships of the people mentioned.  
> \- English is not my first language.  
> \- I've written this with much love. 
> 
> I hope you enjoy!

“And that would be it, really. I just need you in my office to sign the main contract and we’re done. Don’t keep me waiting, Waters.”

Roger heard his manager’s voice, condescending as always, for the last time before he hung up. He hated that the best man in business fell short of expectations when it came to politeness and basic respect, but was able to get him where he needed to be like no one else could. The fact that he always called him by his surname and never by his name didn’t quite sit right with him yet, as he wasn’t used to it. The white noise after the phone hit the switch hook seemed to be trying to invite him to reflect on what lay ahead of him. His future had just been sold, and next Friday was the starting point.

_He used to call me by my surname all the time._

Roger shook his head, aghast that such a thought had a place in his mind. It was simply ridiculous, utterly stupid. He was going to embark on the tour of his life, as a soloist. So many dates he couldn’t even count them, an obscene sum of money on the table, an entire team of sound engineers and backup musicians who were way more competent and had more to offer professionally than his former bandmates. And yet he couldn’t stop thinking about them. He couldn’t stop thinking about _him_.

_And he had this way of saying it sweetly._

_Pink Floyd_ was a piece of his past. Nothing less, nothing more. Two years had passed since he’d left them already, and the legal battle was done for good. He could finally forget and move on, live his life and enjoy his career on his own. He’d gotten the rights to _The Wall_ , and that was all that mattered. Even though they still owned the majority of what the Floyd produced, at least those three pigs wouldn’t get money off of his magnum opus. And Roger was happy he had gotten over them, over their pathetic friendship they seemed to try and flaunt every chance they got. That they shoved in his face whenever they could.

He didn’t need them to create music, he’d never needed _anybody_ to do _anything_. He just chose people, he chose to have company, but he could manage just fine without. They should be grateful Roger gave them an opportunity in the first place, because if he hadn’t joined, they wouldn’t have succeeded. Nicholas would have fronted some petty band that would release one album before dying, Richard would still be playing that cheap keyboard he bought with his savings while he was still in college, and David would...

_He would have succeeded anyway, because he’s brilliant._

“What the fuck’s wrong with me today?” Roger reproached himself, bringing a hand up to his forehead and rubbing it, before realising he still had the phone to his hear and the white noise was starting to bother him. He left it where it belonged.

He looked round his sitting room. Expensive guitars hanging on the walls, antique furniture especially chosen by himself to please his peculiar taste. Artworks, some sent by artists who’ve felt inspired by his music and decided to gift him their creations, others purchased for five-figure prices. Little decorations everywhere, to fill the empty spaces. A red velvet couch that could fit four people comfortably in front of the giant television, and nobody to sit there.

Roger made his way to his bedroom, and then his bathroom. Sometimes he wondered why he purchased all these things. Why have fifty porcelain dishes when he seldom invited anyone over? Why cover every floor with beautiful carpets no one is going to step on, other than himself? Why have a two-story house to begin with, with so much space to be filled by vain objects but no lovers, friends, wife or kids to make it feel alive? He asked himself why he bought a grand piano that he rarely used, because he ended up composing in the old same acoustic every time. He asked himself why he bought expensive guitars left and right when he knew he wouldn’t ever be able to play them like _he_ could.

He switched the light on, and the cold whiteness of the light bulbs let him see his reflection in the mirror. He looked tired, dark circles under his eyes that just wouldn’t fade no matter how much he slept. Tangled hair he barely felt motivated enough to comb. The slight but already visible wrinkles on his skin, mainly between his eyebrows, reminding him of the relentless passing of time. The voice of his former best friend sounded in his head.

_Ticking away the moments that make up a dull day._

He hunched over the sink. He wasn’t sure what had gotten into him that day, but whatever it was, he hated it. Ever since he woke up in the morning, _every fucking thing_ reminded him of the start of the decade. The beginning of Pink Floyd, the countless hours shared in the studio with his then friends. Of Nick drumming away some new beat, excited and laughing light-heartedly. Of Rick shyly showing them a new composition he came up with at crazy hours of a sleepless night. Of David holding his black Stratocaster, his fingers dancing like winter fairies on the snow along the fretboard, accompanied by his soothing, calm and seductive voice.

Roger opened the tap and used the cold water to wash his face. He tried to distract his mind, think about something else, forget the past, all that was behind him. Dwelling on it was pointless, fruitless, and harmful for his psyche. He felt an urge to slap himself out of it, to hit the mirror and break it in a million pieces to get rid of the reflection that stared back at him mercilessly. However, he needed to keep his composure; he had things to deal with. His manager was waiting. 

He turned around and went back into his bedroom. The sky though the window looked white, completely covered by clouds, and it had been threatening to rain since the early morning. He thought he better put on warmer clothes before going out.

Roger opened his wardrobe, filled with expensive fabrics, but didn’t find what he wanted right away. It was a bit messy, to say the least. He rummaged through and came across a light purple shirt and a pair of jeans. That should be good enough for the weather. He took the clothes in his hands, and closed the wardrobe. He walked to his bed and placed them there, then started to undress.

He had been wearing the same clothes for two days. The same ragged clothes. For some reason, looking back, his sudden lack of motivation to change his clothes or do anything other than sleeping seemed to have been an omen. A bad omen, a signal from the universe telling him this day was approaching. This cursed day when _everything_ made him remember. Everything made him feel the most profound sadness and the most bitter hatred.

And he looked at the bed, standing almost completely naked, and asked himself why in the bloody hell he had such a giant bed just for himself.

And he remembered _his_ provocative smile. He recalled _him_ asking the same exact question, and smoothly hinting at having someone to share it with, such as _himself_. The sensual whisper of his voice at midnight, inviting him to get closer. His hardened fingertips travelling over his face, telling him that even if his nose makes him insecure, he thinks he’s handsome. And he remembers melting under that touch, being completely helpless, letting him have complete control of his body and soul. Letting him explore, touch, feel whatever he pleased. Chaste pecks between desperate, lustful kisses. Caressing that soft, silky light brown hair.

_Don’t hold back. Say my name again, Roger. I love how you sound._

He ran back to the bathroom and splashed the freezing cold water on his face again to stop his mind. To demand it ceased the dangerous game it was playing. To let him be, to leave him alone, to never bring those nights up again. To never think of David again, or his strong hands, his bright eyes, his brilliant ideas, his perfect body, his cute dimples.

_Never think of him again._

Roger glared at the mirror one last time, disgusted by what he saw. How could he be so weak? Two years already, get over it. Just get over it.

He sighed in disappointment, and went back to dress up properly. The light purple colour of his shirt was extremely familiar to him, but he didn’t know why it rang a bell in his mind. Well, finally, a thing he didn’t remember in this especially remembrance-filled day. He put on his pants, shoes, and looked for a coat. He took the first one he found, black and so long it almost touched the floor once he put it on. He thought he was ready to go, but when he passed in front of the mirror that was before the main door of his house, he felt his outfit was missing something. He saw a scarf on the hanger, took it without thinking much, and put it around his neck. He nodded seeing his reflection, and got his keys.

Once he went outside, he was glad he wasn’t wearing those ragged clothes anymore. The air was humid and exceptionally cold, so much so that every time he exhaled he saw the warm air float like white smoke and then disappear. His car was in front, parked on the side of the street, passing the gate, waiting for him. It occurred to Roger that even the petrol inside it could freeze if left outside long enough.

He got in, and closed the door. He fixed the mirror, making sure he could see what was behind him clearly. He gripped the steering wheel, curling his fingers and extending them again a couple times, trying to relax. He started the engine, and it purred like a giant feline. He found that sound calming. He soon decided it was time to go and set off.

The streets all looked the same. In a high-class neighbourhood like his there wasn’t much to see. Most buildings failed at trying to appear elegant and came across as pretentious, forced, petulant, unaware of their displeasing colours and shapes. No kids playing outside, no dogs barking. It could perfectly become a ghost town overnight and Roger wouldn’t know the difference. He missed the small middle class neighbourhood where he lived his childhood. Where kids of all ages and backgrounds would gather at the only park during cold days like this to play, to hope it would snow, to pretend they were kings and queens of a frozen kingdom, brave knights and princesses of the cold. Roger’s current neighbourhood had a giant park full of games for the kids, but he would be lying if he said he’d ever seen a kid use them. What wouldn’t the children he knew back then give for spending just a day in that abandoned playground, he thought. Life was unfair, and that would never change.

He turned the corner, continued for a few streets, and then there was a noticeable change of scenery. This was different vicinity, where different people lived, and it had that warm and charming quality of being filled with family homes. A quality no amount of money could purchase, the only thing Roger thought he was allowed to envy of them. And he could buy every single house in that damn happy neighbourhood of hard workers and their sons and daughters, he could try and buy that cosiness, that comfort, but he knew it didn’t lie in the material aspect. He knew that if he wasted his money looking for that, it would be pointless; the essence of each and every building would be taken away as soon as the family which lived inside left.

_Like he took my house’s charm away with him when he left._

He stopped at the traffic light, changing from green to yellow and then scarlet red. It looked oddly contrasting when seen as a part of the landscape, of the background of strictly cold colours and the predominantly white sky. Roger closed his eyes for a minute, trying to let his body relax. He didn’t succeed, quite obviously, and once again rubbed his forehead. Maybe he just needed a good cigarette, or a nice drink. He subconsciously knew he didn’t, because he’d been smoking and drinking like there was no tomorrow for days, and it hadn’t made him feel better. Only worse, like a waste of space, a waste of life.

And even though he was sober at the moment, it took the loud complaint of another driver behind him for Roger to realise the light had changed already. He advanced, and felt he should say sorry, but ignored it and carried on. And there he saw the sign, the sign with the name of David’s street written in white letters. His mind played tricks again and made him see the whole band standing there, wearing those clothes old people said were too campy. An epiphany crept up on him, and poked him with its ugly finger.

_I should see him_.

“Seriously?” Roger’s voice was hoarse and accentuated by a bitter, resentful tone. He was used to talking to himself, being alone so overwhelmingly often and only speaking to other people at work. Work he no longer shared with friends or people he could truly speak fondly of. “Is this what it amounts to?”

He recalled their final argument, where Roger called David every name in his book, and flat out refused to go on working. David was wrathful and even though it showed, he always managed to remain soft-spoken and respectful in the face of a row. He tried to talk, to mend things, tell him they could record the song however he wanted, that he didn’t care about it enough to continue fighting because of it. This only made Roger fume.

Nick and Rick looked at each other and then at the other side of the glass, where David and Roger were sitting. David had his acoustic, and was trying to record something, but Roger kept asking him to change the chords. And he would try a different progression, just to be met with disapproval. Roger didn’t like it and was becoming frustrated. He couldn’t find what was wrong with the lyrics either. Their argument had begun fifteen minutes before, and it was at its boiling point. David had left his guitar beside him, and couldn’t stay sitting down in his place. He stood with his back to Roger so as to not have to make eye contact with him, in an attempt to calm himself down. It was something he always did when he was angry.

_You’re never satisfied. Why can’t you see it’s never going to be perfect? It’s never going to be, because even when it is, you’ll hate it. Because you hate me._

And Roger just lost it.

_How can I not?_

“No, I shouldn’t see him.” Roger said out loud, gripping the steering wheel, and trying to get back to reality. He needed to concentrate on something else, whatever he could find, to get away from those memories.

He decided to focus on the sky. He drove with care, but mainly admired the white nothingness of the cloud-covered firmament. Black birds crossing the sky, flying in a dark flock that flowed like a wave, a perfect formation. Behind the fleecy clouds, he could tell the sun was waiting. It shone through, even though only thin rays were capable of breaking that snow-white barrier.

He switched on the radio, hoping to hear the news or some cheerful song. And obeying to the inevitable, perfectly synchronised conspiracy the world seemed to have agreed in holding against him, David’s voice filled the air, describing Roger’s situation with an almost unsettling precision.

_No navigator to find my way home. Unleaded, empty, and turned to stone._

“This is ridiculous!” Roger yelled, and then he noticed he had taken the wrong turn. He checked the signs, the houses. He could situate himself and he hated it, he hated everything. He was just one street away from David’s house.

The brakes made a screeching sound when he pulled over, rather violently.

He pressed a hand on his chest, felt his heart pounding. He couldn’t deny it anymore. The past week had been miserable, and describing it in such a way was a very generous way to put it but he couldn’t think of any worse adjectives, and the only way out of this one-way street was right in front of him. He needed to see David. He needed to say sorry before leaving.

Roger took a moment to think about what to say, seeing his face reflected in the side-view mirror. How to say it. How to walk up to the door. How to remember how to breathe when David’s blue eyes meet his. He concluded overthinking was not going to help. He needed to be spontaneous, just say whatever his heart dictated, even if it meant sacrificing the little self-respect he had left. He needed to let it out in order to be able to sleep in peace again. And so, he breathed deeply, and kept going.

David’s house always looked the same. Brick walls, gable roof. Roger knew the inside of that house like the palm of his hand. Like the palm of _his_ hand. He’d spent hours in that little studio David made out of the guest room, drinking in the sitting room when he was still part of Pink Floyd, sitting on the grass in the garden, playing with David’s dogs. And at the same time, Roger felt as if this were the first time he’d seen it. Now that house was no longer friendly territory, but he needed to make amends. He needed to sleep. He needed to move on.

He stopped the car in front of the house. He looked at it in detail, and noticed the curtains were drawn back. The sitting room, with its light on, was perfectly visible from outside. The front garden made it be relatively far away still, but Roger could see movement inside the house. Although increasingly anxious, Roger finally opened his car’s door and stepped out into the cold again.

His steps were doubtful as he lumbered along the stone pathway, but he managed to force himself to do it. With his hands buried in his pockets and asking himself why he had to exist in the first place, he walked past the front garden and climbed the three steps in front of the door. He breathed deeply, and brought a hand up to knock on the white wood. This might be the bravest thing he’s done in years.

He stopped for a second before touching its surface. What if he isn’t home? What if he _is_ home? He didn’t know what David’s reaction would be once he sees him, hell, he didn’t know what _his own_ reaction was going to be. What if someone else answered instead? What would he say?

_Oh yeah, it’s just me, good old Roger. I want to apologise to the love of my life for being such a prick and treating him like rubbish._

_Fucking pathetic._

_Forget it._

Roger cowered and almost tripped. He went down the three steps again, and turning his back on the house, he felt the sudden need to cry. He couldn’t wrap his head around what he had lost, all because of his insufferable way of behaving, not being able to swallow his pride once in a while. If he could be reborn and do things differently, he would live his life mostly the same way, but making sure to be a better person. To not break the relationship he’d built with David. He would make sure to love him, to appreciate him, to value him as he deserved.

Roger wanted to bawl, to look up to the sky and scream, to let everyone know the horrible feeling that was tearing him apart.

 _I miss him_.

He missed him like the stars miss the moon when it isn't high up in the sky. He missed him like a bird misses the tree it considers its home when migrating a long distance away for winter. He missed him like a dog misses its owner, with sincere and pure emotion, with such a need to be back together again. He missed him like he’d never missed anyone before. A feeling so strong, so raw it made him want to _die_ to make it stop. 

He was halfway through the stone path when he heard something behind him. The key turned in the lock, and the white door was opened.

“Roger?”

He looked back, and there he was.

 _David_.

He was standing with his hand still on the handle, wearing casual clothing and an expression of honest amazement. He would freeze if he stepped outside, and thinking about his wellbeing, Roger gathered the courage to shyly make his way back to the door. He felt as though walking towards him was his final walk of shame, he felt vulnerable and breakable. 

_Does it matter anyway? I've got nothing left to lose. I can either try to solve it or waste away._

Roger went for a handshake which David accepted, but transformed into a hug by pulling him in. Roger was paralyzed for a second, his heart racing and his mind panicking. David smiled broadly, showing those imperfect yet so beautiful white teeth, as he clenched his arms around him in a strong embrace. Roger always loved the way his eyes narrowed when he smiled, and the dimples in his cheeks that appeared every time he did so.

“Come in, come in!” He heard his voice, yet another of Roger’s weaknesses, inviting him. Before he could take a step, David practically dragged him inside claiming he would get sick if he stood out there any longer. The door was closed and Roger found himself inside David’s house for the first time in over two years.

Roger regarded the sitting room, and it was slightly different to what he remembered. Nothing dramatic, but the furniture had been moved and there were a few new decorations. There was no carpet, and when he looked at the sofa, he could almost see Pink Floyd watching something silly on TV and laughing like maniacs. He smiled too when he saw David’s genuine joy as he put the cushions on the sofa in a more suitable position for Roger to sit down. The room had a kind of a feminine touch, and thinking of David bringing a woman home made his heart ache. 

“It’s been such a long time! Please make yourself comfortable, how’ve you been?” David’s voice was calm, but showed clear enthusiasm. This astounded Roger, who was still struggling to grasp the idea of David not being mad at all when seeing him. Of all possible reactions, this had to be the one he would have considered last.

Roger didn’t take off his coat but accepted David’s offer, and sat down on the sofa.

“I’ll make some tea, this weather's almost Antarctic.” He said, heading to the kitchen. There was no wall to separate it from the sitting room, so Roger could still see him placing the kettle on the stove and then turning around to face him. “I didn’t expect you’d come!”

“Well… “He started, fairly shyly, as he fidgeted with his hands on his lap. “I’m leaving for a big tour soon and I wanted to say goodbye.”

“That’s great!” David grinned, and this made Roger slightly smile. David looked through a couple cupboards, looking for tea bags. He wasn’t quite sure where he'd left them last time. As he searched, he asked. “So, Europe?”

“And the United States.” He replied to his former friend, who was for some reason treating him so nicely Roger questioned whether David still considered him a friend. Before meeting him again, he was sure their hatred was absolutely mutual and reciprocal. The guitarist found the tea bags, and placed two cups one next to the other. The water’s temperature inside the kettle rose slowly. Roger added: “As a soloist. Starting this Friday, the first gig's here in London.”

David poured the boiling water into the two cups. He made sure Roger’s tea was stronger by pressing the bag to the side of the cup with the spoon, as he knew he liked it better that way. He then came back and sat next to him, leaving his cup on the coffee table. Roger muttered a thankful sentence and took it, then decided it was too still hot for his cold hands and left it on the little table until it was a suitable temperature for him to start drinking it. 

“I seriously didn’t expect to see you.” His voice always made Roger either fall in love all over again, or hate him even more. He wasn’t sure which of the two was dominant right then, but there was a strange mixture of the two wandering through his mind.

Roger looked to his side, met David’s blue eyes, and wished he could just get closer and kiss him. And at the same time, he wanted to kill him. How dare he be so amicable, so respectful, so friendly after doing what he’d done. After _leaving_ him. The memory of their last argument came back to Roger once again.

_How can I not? You’ve dumped me for that bitch!_

“Being honest, neither did I.”

 _God, how stupid that must’ve sounded_.

“I mean, coming here... They’re waiting for me, actually.”

Roger let a hint of his usual egocentrism shine through his voice, as if he were trying to say somebody out there was waiting for him because he was loved, ‘ _someone cares, I’m not as worthless’,_ and hoped it wasn’t too evident that it was only his manager. A manager who didn’t really care about Roger, aside from how many tickets he could sell and how much money he could make before burning out.

“Oh, then I guess you won’t stay for much longer.”

_Say it, admit it, swallow your stupid pride._

“No, I won’t. I just...”

_Say it._

“... needed to have a word with you.”

David became a bit uncomfortable with being so close to Roger, so he moved away a little and took a sip from his cup of tea. He assumed Roger hadn’t taken off his coat because, as he had mentioned, he was probably in a hurry. In reality, Roger didn’t take it off because he didn’t want to feel exposed, to relive in his brain the many times he had undressed in front of David. He needed that imaginary protection that clinging onto his coat and fidgeting with his fingers guaranteed.

_Would you touch me?_

“You sound rather worried.”

Roger sighed shakily.

“I’m- I’ve been, you know, thinking an awful lot. This- This past week has been, for some reason, very insightful for me.” He stuttered forcefully. He pressed two fingers on his wrist, and felt his pulse. He felt his heart had somehow moved to his hand and it was resting on his palm, explicitly there, blood leaking between his fingers.

David looked at his hands, and Roger was frightened, as if the guitarist could _see_ what he was imagining. He swallowed and closed his fists, almost trying to hide his invisible heart from David’s sight.

“I-I’m sorry.” He muttered. _“I’m sorry_ , David. I know it’s been a while, but I needed to get it off my chest. I’m sorry for ending things in such bad terms with the lads, with _you_. I’m sorry for all the horrible things I said about them, and you, and your wife.”

To say that his former friend was caught by surprise by this apology would be an understatement.

Just before he was able to say anything, David and Roger heard a very peculiar sound that required David to get up immediately and abandon the sitting room for a second.

A baby was crying.

_Oh my God._

“Looks like she’s not asleep anymore. Just a second.” He said as he got up and quickly disappeared into the hallway.

Roger’s mind exploded in that split-second David was out of sight. He felt a thousand emotions at the same time, his hands were shaking. He intertwined their fingers and told himself to calm down. He held back the tears that suddenly wanted to come out.

David returned holding a tiny baby girl, who was wearing a pink dress that covered her diaper and white knitted socks.

“Meet my daughter, Alice.”

_His baby girl._

She couldn’t be more than four months old. David sat next to Roger and Alice looked at him with curiosity, while occupying that privileged place on her father’s lap. She wasn’t crying anymore, and David had already wiped her tears away. During this time in which Roger had been so focused on himself, he didn't even get the news.

“She looks just like you.”

Her downy head, the same tome of light brown that David’s hair posessed. Her lips had the same shape as his, and to top it off, those big, bright blue eyes. The exact same shade of blue, deep and beautiful. She stared at Roger, who smiled at her, his heart breaking as a few tears started to escape despite his efforts to hold them back.

“She’s so beautiful, David.”

Roger was being honest, and hoping that his tears could be explained by saying he was moved by meeting his former best friend’s first-born child. Deep inside, he felt his last hopes of ever getting back together with him agonize and die. He’d lost David _forever_ , and the baby girl that now laughed was the purest form of evidence of that, for Roger, rough reality.

“You like him, love?” David asked his daughter, then he asked for Roger’s hand, and let his baby grab his fingers with her fragile hands.

Roger couldn’t help but smile in a silly fashion, such innocence and sweetness before his eyes.

“He has apologised, so I guess we can call him _uncle_ _Roger_.”

He giggled, and whispered that he would be honoured. Alice was entertained for a second looking at his fingernails, then at his face. She made a babyish sound that sounded like an exclamation. Roger stuck his tongue out and Alice laughed hysterically.

“She definitely likes you.” David chuckled. “As long as you don’t insult my wife again, you’re welcome to come and play with us.”

Ginger had won.

“I won’t be able to until the tour ends.”

Alice suddenly frowned, as if she could understand what Roger had said. David held her in his arms and gently started to rock her, and she snuggled up immediately. His touch was magical, Alice was drifting to sleep in an instant.

“Well, I’m glad we’re good again.” He said quietly.

“I’m glad you’re doing so well.”

“She’s the light of my eyes.” David affirmed sweetly. “I can’t wait to start telling her dad jokes.”

Roger held back a laugh, and used the back of his hand to get rid of the traces of tears still on his cheeks.

As their conversation went on, they talked about subjects Roger didn’t think he would be seeing in his own life any time soon. He apologised again, and David did as well, even though he didn’t need to. He hadn’t done anything wrong, really.

He just fell out of love. They had had something, passionate and genuine, but it ended as everything does. As a song ends, a book ends, as life ends. Roger realised David didn’t love him anymore way before they broke up, and he felt the moment getting nearer and nearer until it arrived. They talked, not angrily but mostly in a what felt like a chat of mutual surrender, and decided to end it.

Months after, David met Ginger. Roger, still in love, grew to resent her immensely. He felt she was a threat, that she would be an obstacle if they ever wanted to try again. And all his fears were confirmed when David announced he was marrying her. And he did end up marrying her.

Roger was now looking at the inevitable. A baby was the next step in almost every heterosexual relationship once they were husband and wife.

When Roger decided he should leave, David told him to hold on for a second. He went to leave Alice in her cot and came back.

They hugged when saying their goodbyes. Then David opened the door and watched Roger walk away. He was about to get in his car when he heard David shout.

“Next Friday?”

Roger grinned.

“Next Friday!”

“I’ll be there!”

He waved as he saw Roger set off. The bassist saw him get inside the house by looking at the back-view mirror, continued for a couple more streets, and had to pull over.

All that hatred he felt melted away, and was replaced by sorrow. He was happy for David, but couldn’t help grieving his last hopes. That dreadful week was coming to an end, or at least the cause of his sadness from now on would be different. He thought about what they had, what it _could have been_ if their relationship hadn’t... if he weren't so disgustingly selfish and unable to appreciate him.

Roger cried a river. He had never done so, not like _this_ , in his entire life. He couldn’t breathe properly. He covered his face with his hands and hoped no one would see him, as he let it out. He cried until he felt he had no more tears left, not caring about how mad his manager was going to be once he finally got to his office. He used his scarf to dry his face, but every time he did so he started crying again.

He felt defeated. He'd lost him. He now had, truly, nothing left to lose. 

_I’m still in love with you, David._

**Author's Note:**

> It's awfully considerate of you to read my things!
> 
> So yeah I haven't forgotten this collection... 
> 
> And I know Alice was born way earlier but I'll do anything for the sake of fiction!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed Roger's suffering. If you've got a minute to leave a comment, it will be much appreciated!


End file.
